SCHOOL DAYS
Serious as was my girlhood, as the sombre experiences and the
resolutions which grew out of them show, it was by no means always so
shadowed as this record would indicate. And it is a relief to turn from
the detailed account of much of my inner life when a schoolgirl to more
of the objective life, to sunnier memories, to the life within the
school-house walls, even though to do so I go back for a little to the
care-free days of early girlhood.
In school I was a dutiful little girl of the goody-good sort, but from
about thirteen onward my badness cropped out and I became a little
terror. My mates were equally unmanageable. In the senior department we
could keep a teacher only a short time because of our “insubordination
and irregularities,” as one dignified principal said when he came in
to chastise us. And I, though demure in appearance, was one of the
chief offenders among the girls. How fertile we were in devising ways
to annoy the teacher! We would agree to hum a tune in an undertone, so
arranging it that when the teacher would steal up to the desks whence
the humming issued, pupils in another part of the room would take up
the tune, and the baffled teacher would wander from desk to desk trying
in vain to “spot” the offenders. The very diligence with which we were
studying at such times should have enlightened her.
One day the whole roomfull broke out in paroxysms of sneezing. The
ring-leaders when discovered were made to promise never to bring snuff
to school again. I kept my word but sought to get a similar effect some
other way: An arbor-vitæ tree grew near the school-yard, and somehow,
I found that by irritating the nostrils with those rough sprigs, we
could induce sneezing. It worked, though less successfully than the
snuff. I had my triumph when the teacher accused me of having broken
my word. Flatly and indignantly I denied it; we had had no snuff, I
declared emphatically. No, and no pepper, either. Nevertheless, she
kept me after school, whipped my hands, then, taking me on her lap,
wept and talked religion to me. Her leniency should have melted me,
but it did not. I was unregenerate indeed. I remember the casuistry I
used, which she herself must have repeated, for one of the students in
the academic department rallied me on the way I had defended myself for
sneezing in school. I had put a hypothetical question to her: If the
Lord made something grow that tickled the lining of my nose, was I to
blame that I could not control the sneeze? The youth would get that off
with variations till it teased me so that I was fairly punished for my
naughtiness. We also brought soda biscuit to school and ate them fast,
inducing hiccough. And the boys would strike matches, then report that
they _thought_ they smelled something burning--all sorts of schemes
were devised to annoy the poor teacher. Finally the Board of Education
sent one of their members to sit in the schoolroom and keep order. He
was a great fat man I had known from childhood. When I was little he
had called me “Sis Arnold,” and I had called him “Piggie Hanford.”
Mother used to remonstrate with me, but it was not so disrespectful as
it sounded; we understood each other. He always had a Jackson ball to
give me when we met on the street, but first he would pretend to bite
my hand. Once, I remember, he did bite hard enough for the print of
his teeth to show at the base of my thumb. But he didn’t hurt--just
liked to scare me, and I liked being scared. It was such fun to see him
coming toward me, big and black and frowning; to be snatched up, while
he pretended to bite me; to struggle; then to be put down, when I would
hold fast to him while he hunted for the Jackson ball, after which I
would run away calling, “Good bye, Piggie, Piggie Hanford!”
It was years after that when he came to keep order for Miss O----.
I liked to have him there, for he helped me with my examples, and I
needed help sorely then and always. We were as good as pie when he was
there. But one day when he was strutting past my desk, a recollection
of my childish freaks coming to me, I whispered mischievously, “Piggie,
Piggie Hanford.” He turned on me such a stern look that for an instant
I almost screamed, as I used to when he would grab me up as a child.
But I soon saw the smile coming, and he bent down, saying in a low
tone, “That won’t do here, Sis Arnold,” and walked solemnly away. They
hired a more competent teacher the next term, and “Piggie” came no more
to keep us within bounds
In the academic department, becoming interested in my studies, and
having to work hard, I kept out of mischief. Still there was nonsense
going on even there--whispering and writing notes, and passing
them surreptitiously, chiefly for the fun of disobeying the rules,
especially with the preceptress. More afraid of the new principal, we
toed the mark better for him, dreading his ready sarcasm too much to
risk it often.
Mathematics was always a bugbear to me. Passing the Regents early in
the other elementary branches, and also in many of the Intermediate
studies, I was long in passing in arithmetic. It was not only dry, it
was incomprehensible. I detested it. Professor Durland was patient with
me. I verily believe he would have let me drop the study if he could
have. (To this day I often dream of being back in school and sneaking
out of the arithmetic class, only to be discovered by “Prof.” and sent
back to my hated recitations. What present-day duties am I longing to
shirk, the Freudians will inquire?) I tried Regents in arithmetic three
times before I passed. I well remember the last time: Professor Durland
had coached me diligently for weeks, and I had felt desperately that
I must succeed this time. The whole department was interested. It was
unusual for one so advanced as I was in other studies to be so stupid
in this.
It was Father’s day for being present during the Regents examination.
(The different members of the Board of Education took turns in coming,
to see that all was fair play.) How my heart thumped when the principal
opened the sealed questions sent from Albany, handed a paper to Father,
and glanced rapidly over the questions himself! I knew how much he
wanted me to succeed, and I wanted to for his sake as well as for my
own. Soon he nodded satisfactorily. Knowing I was watching him, it was
as though he said to me, “It isn’t so hard--you can do it,” and as he
put the slip of printed questions on my desk he said in a low voice,
“You will pass this time, Eugenia.” That cheered me; it sounded so
confident; and he knew my limitations. He had drilled me so well on the
ground covered by the questions that I myself felt, on setting to work,
that there was a fair chance of getting through.
“Prof.” came often to my desk, overlooking my paper. Once (it was not
fair, I know, and he knew), he drew his pencil across an example I had
worked. I did it over, somewhat conscience-stricken even at that hint,
for at the close of each examination we had to listen to an oath read,
stating that we had neither given nor received help from any source;
then had to write these solemn words: “I do so declare,” and sign our
names. Had I not been conscientious about this oath, I should long
before that have cheated in arithmetic examinations.
When I handed in my paper, “Prof.” said, “Don’t go home till I look it
over.” Returning to my desk, I waited. The suspense while Professor
Durland and Father were bent over my paper was harrowing. It was a real
vivisection for me. I saw by their faces when an answer was right, and
when one was wrong, and saw them estimate the number of counts the
Regents would probably allow on each answer. Other students, too, were
eagerly watching the result--girls I had helped write compositions,
who, in turn, had worked my examples for me, were anxious for me to be
rid of the troublesome study.
Finally those two men lifted their heads. They had evidently marked me
strictly, so as to be sure beyond a doubt that the more rigid Regents
Board would not turn me down. Professor Durland now nodded his head
vigorously, and Father beamed with joy. How gaily I walked out into
the hall, my feet scarcely touching the floor! While I was putting on
my wraps the door softly opened, “Prof.” stepped out and said, “You
are through this time, Eugenia!” It was one of the happiest moments
of my life; but though choking with emotion and gratitude to him,
I don’t suppose I expressed it at all. Still I think he knew; knew
also that I was fond of him. Along with several of the other girls,
I had a schoolgirl’s infatuation for him. He was our hero--a silly,
sentimental fondness of the adolescent period, but then, and always
afterward, redeemed by genuine affection and gratitude. He was then,
I suppose, a man in the thirties, and we were girls of sixteen and
seventeen. I have since thought how wise and kind he was never to seem
to notice or to take advantage of our romantic feelings, and never
to make us appear ridiculous on that score, for he must have seen it
all. (There was a time when we treasured everything he said or did. I
even remember once that a certain girl and I kept count how many times
he glanced at us in a forenoon; though his glances were doubtless of
surveillance, we treasured them just the same.) He pursued just the
right course with us, and our sentimental adoration did us no harm. It
probably helped us in our studies. We blossomed under his approval,
and withered under his biting sarcasm. Yet we often teased and annoyed
him. He was surprisingly forbearing at times, and especially indulgent
with me, giving me freer rein than some others to indulge certain whims
and idiosyncrasies. I half consciously recognized this, girl that I
was, and sometimes took advantage of it. I used to love to hear him
pronounce my name; he said it a different way from any one else. What
is it Whitman says--
Did you think there was but one pronunciation to your name?
I had nearly as hard a time with algebra as with arithmetic, and often
became rebellious. Feeling that I could not go through the struggles
and humiliations that I had with arithmetic, I tried repeatedly to get
out of going to the class. I simply could not comprehend the study,
and was always behind the others. Girls that were as stupid as stupid
could be about tasks that were play to me would do things on the
blackboard as impossible for me as the labours of Hercules. How glibly
they explained what they had done! How painfully I toiled to perform
the simplest tasks! Oh, those miserable days! Professor Durland tried
all kinds of methods with me; he sometimes lost patience and would make
cutting remarks, not, however, without having first tried to persuade
me to work harder. I would not study if I could possibly help it,
vainly hoping he would overlook me in class or give me something easy
(which he often did), that my stupidity would not be so patent.
One day when sent to the blackboard, knowing that the task was beyond
me, I refused to try. He insisted, saying he would help me. I hung
back. That angered him. “You can go up to the blackboard, can’t you?”
he tauntingly asked. I walked up to the board boiling with rage. He
stood near giving me points and explanations which, had I not been so
incensed and obstinate, would have enabled me to do the work. But I
was angry to my fingertips. I fumbled with the crayon and it broke. I
was powerless to do a thing but stand there and sulk. The tasks of the
other students nearing completion, one by one they took their seats;
one by one rose to explain their work; and still I stood, alone now,
before the long blackboard, my work untouched, my eyes blinded with
angry tears, my listless hand holding that useless piece of crayon, and
those meaningless symbols staring me in the face.
What an awareness I had of my figure as I stood there, my back to the
school! I could see just how the back of my drooping head looked,
my long braids hanging below my waist. It was such an uncomfortable
awareness of my disgraced self that I had as I stood there. The
class-work ended, there was an ominous pause, I still standing
helpless and hopeless. Then the storm fell. Before the whole school he
launched forth a reprimand, every word of which cut me cruelly, the
burden of it being that I was not so stupid as obstinate (I think he
said “mulish”); that I thought I knew better than any one else what
I ought to study; but that I would soon find that I was tremendously
mistaken; that a “bird that can sing, and won’t sing, must be made to
sing”; that algebra has its uses as well as rhetoric and physiology
(oh, what scorn as he said these words--my pet studies!) and that
hereafter I was to get my algebra lessons before being allowed to
recite in anything else.
I got so angry I was cold, and oh, so still! I remember the awful
stillness I felt within myself as I stood there. I knew what he said
was just, but it hurt my pride that he would speak that way to _me_,
and before the whole school!
I don’t know how I ever left the blackboard and faced the others. He
kept me after school and patiently showed me how to do the work. I was
maddened for days after to see how, to conciliate me (who did not want
to be conciliated), and perhaps to avoid the risk for me of another
ignominious failure, he gave me such easy work that I could not fail to
do it. At that I felt insulted. Perhaps I did study harder thereafter,
but I went in and out of school for a period (perhaps only a week, but
it seems ages) with an air of offended dignity that must have been
absurd. I thought myself a martyr. Avoiding his glances at recitations,
I refused to smile at his jests and pleasantries; showed no interest
in the things about which I was wont to be enthusiastic; and was on
my highest heels of offended dignity. If I had the courage to look at
some of my old diaries I should doubtless find my injured feelings
faithfully and minutely recorded in them; but there is a limit to
one’s endurance of self-scrutiny.
Some of “Prof.’s” efforts at reconciliation were obvious; and though
they pleased my vanity, my obduracy would not yield. The girls pleaded
with me to soften my heart; I hardened it instead--the memory of that
hour at the blackboard froze me. Then, too, I was pleased to be of
so much importance. I remember one of the things he tried to soften
me: It was before I had studied Virgil, but always when the class in
Virgil was reciting I had made little pretense of studying, listening
to the translations instead. At this “Prof.” sometimes shook his head
disapprovingly, motioning me to attend to my studies; and sometimes he
suggested that it would be well if those not in the class in Virgil
would kindly study their Cæsar; that there was abundant need of it,
and so on. But I had noticed that he seemed secretly pleased at my
attention when, the students having given their lame translations, he
would take it up and, in his beautiful, smooth rendering, read on and
on, himself carried away by the beauty of it. At such times I could
not help but drink it in; it was a daily dissipation that I struggled
against, but yielded to. Time and again I would pretend to be studying,
but really listening; till, in spite of myself, I would have to glance
up, always to find him looking at me as he translated the beautiful
epic. I think he took a mischievous pleasure in this; he knew I could
not resist it, and it was a tribute to his translation, as well as to
the poet.
Well, after our “quarrel” he tried Virgil as a pacifier. Knowing that
he was seeking to draw some sign of interest from me, and pleased and
angered at the same time, still was I deaf to the charm. But, one day,
in order to counteract its effect, I seized my algebra and, stimulated
by the excitement of it all, dashed off a parody on Hamlet’s
Soliloquy--on the study of algebra. It was rather clever (the girls
thought it wonderful), and it helped to relieve my wounded feelings,
for in it I spoke rather freely of the principal.
Shortly after this, when things were running fairly smooth again,
“Prof.”, who was helping me with my algebra lesson one day, taking up
my book to show me some rule, chanced to see that parody written on the
fly leaves. After reading a few lines he turned fairly white with rage.
In low tones of concentrated anger he said, “I always knew it was pure
mulishness in you; you could master your algebra as well as anything
else, if you would; you spend your time writing things like this,
instead of honestly studying. I have lost all patience with you--‘You
can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.’”
Then followed another period of strained relations when, after days of
obduracy on my part, he enlisted Coleridge to break the spell. It was
in the literature class. Whether by accident or design, I don’t know,
but he read the sonnet on “Severed Friendship” in which are the words:
“Each spoke words of high disdain and insult to the other,”
and also,
“And to be wroth with one we love doth work like madness on the
brain.”
Reading this in class, as he always read poetry, beautifully,
feelingly, while I sat bursting with this teapot-tempest which I was
dignifying into a tragedy, he melted my stony heart. I barely escaped
dissolving in tears; and when the class was dismissed, the skies were
again clear.
He had never again mentioned to me that wretched parody of the previous
year till one day shortly before graduation: One of the lower-class
girls had been using my algebra that term. We were grouped together
during recess, talking over the approaching Commencement, when “Prof.”
came up and asked where my algebra was. “Lizzie has it,” I said,
curious as to why he asked. Thereupon he sat down at Lizzie’s desk
and copied my wicked parody. I mildly protested, but half smiling,
he continued copying, looking grave as he proceeded. Touched and
flattered, the memory of my silly actions, and of his forbearance, and
the thought that our school days were soon to end, made me repentant
and remorseful. I would have given a good deal to have changed some
of the lines in the old thing that I had thought so clever; and would
have given much more to have told him how sorry I then was for my
stubbornness; how grateful for his help; but I couldn’t. He never knew
until years after (when I obeyed an impulse and wrote him), unless he
then divined my contrition.
One other time in school he was severe with me: I had habitually
helped certain girls with their compositions. It was play for me. They
were poor stuff, but better than the others could do, and I always
made theirs inferior to my own. One week I thought it would be fun to
experiment a bit, so, instead of having the girls that I usually aided
write a part of their own essays, I told each one that I would write
her entire essay, if she would not tell a soul, and, after copying it,
would destroy my copy. Each girl jumped at the chance. How the literary
ardour possessed me that week! To write four or five essays besides
my own, all of which were to be read in one afternoon, I must vary my
style so that no one could detect the authorship. I flattered myself
I was versatile enough to do this. Glowing with pride I read them to
myself before handing them over to the girls.
On the momentous afternoon I assumed a calm, indifferent manner while
the various essays were being read; and when my turn came, at the last,
read in my usual faltering voice, my knees trembling so that I felt I
must run from the platform before I was half through. As usual, mine
was greeted with applause, and I took my seat with cheeks aflame, a
sense of elation all through me. It had been an exciting afternoon, but
as I had sworn each girl to secrecy, I could share it with no one.
At the close “Prof.” arose and said the exercises, though longer than
usual, had been uncommonly interesting; that the choice of subjects had
been varied, well chosen, well presented (I glowed more, with scarcely
concealed pride); but--and here he paused--he would like to add that it
seemed a little selfish, not to say conceited, for one person to be so
pleased with her ability that she insisted on being represented five
or six times in one afternoon! Instantly every eye was turned upon me.
Each girl, knowing her own false position, suspected the others, and
his remarks were so pointed that all the others guessed. He rubbed it
in by saying that it was a well-laid plan, but was rather unflattering
to the instructors to suppose them incapable of detecting it. Were we
not aware that our teachers knew what each student was capable of? Then
he launched forth in withering scorn of those who had been so helped,
not only then, but throughout the year. But of what he said to them I
cared little; for my own disgraceful part I felt the deepest chagrin.
He made me realize how culpable I had been in helping them to sail
under false colours. It was a bitter lesson for all of us, but did not
keep me from lending a hand (or pen) when we graduated. It was known
then, I’m sure, but winked at. One girl boldly said: “You’ve helped
us all along, you can’t leave us in the lurch now.” In fact, I wrote
outright the graduating essay of an upper-class girl who graduated the
year before I did; and of the fourteen essays in our class, I had a
hand in six, two of which (my own and another’s) I wrote outright. My
itch for writing bothered me at an early age, and I _had_ to scratch.
Not that there was any merit in the schoolgirl effusions; it was only a
facility for stringing words together, an aptness for quotation, and a
tendency to moralizing and to figurative writing, that let themselves
loose in them.
It has always irritated me to see persons too credulous, and I enjoyed
punishing them for their credulity. One of our classmates could be made
to believe the most absurd things. Sometimes we had spelling bouts
the last few minutes before the close of school, and the principal
would require us to define the words spelled. Sprinkled in with the
long columns of English words were occasional Latin ones. A demon of
some sort possessed me one day on seeing _Sal Atticum_ in the spelling
lesson. It was my first year of Latin and I chose Bessie Barnes,
the credulous one, who had not studied Latin at all, for my victim.
Whispering to her I said, “Shall I tell you the definition of the
Latin words in to-day’s lesson?” Of course she was glad of help, so,
telling her correctly the meaning of the others, when I came to _Sal
Atticum_, pausing and laughing (perforce at the absurd joke I meant to
perpetrate on her) I turned it off by saying that it was such a funny
thing to have in the spelling lesson; and the little goose believed
me when I told her it meant, “With Sal in the Attic”! We both laughed
at the absurdity of it, then I went on soberly to explain that “Sal”
was just Sal, because proper names do not change; then, reminding
her that in Latin the words do not come in consecutive order, as in
English, I said that “_cum_” means “_with_”; that “attic” is the same
in both languages, and that “attic” being in the ablative case, “in” is
understood, thus making the translation, “With Sal in the attic.” Then,
drilling her on the meaning of all the foreign words in the column,
I got heaps of fun every time she came to _Sal Atticum_ and gave the
ludicrous definition. And as we both laughed at the comical phrase, she
said she hoped it would not fall to her to define it. I have forgotten
the outcome. I can’t be sure, but think we gave “Prof.” the tip and got
him to ask her its meaning; but I remember distinctly her indignation
when she learned how I had hoodwinked her.
I formed a romantic affection, perhaps in my seventeenth year, for a
new girl who moved into our village. She appealed to my imagination,
being so different from the girls I had known. Beautiful, with deep,
proud, dark eyes, she was a good student; had read much more than
I had; and could translate Virgil far better, all of which made me
look up to her. Strange to say, I wasn’t jealous of her. We studied
Greek and Roman history together, and astronomy. There were four of
us girls, and two of the boys, who met at our various homes certain
evenings studying together. The old Greek and Roman names, and the
constellations, are inseparably linked in memory, particularly with
that lovely dark-eyed girl and, yes, those two boys. It was a good
fellowship I had with the boys, no nonsense--at least, hardly any. The
boys had their own sweethearts who met with us, as a rule, though they
were less studious than we were.
I think at that time I was vaguely conscious of being liked by these
boys in a different way than they liked their sweethearts--because I
was a girl and because I was companionable besides. There was always
a certain piquancy about it. And this has always been a pleasing
consciousness in connection with my men friends. I never could be
satisfied with a friendship taking cognizance of but one of the
factors. At the time of which I am speaking, though, I would have been
distinctly annoyed at any open manifestation on the part of the boys
of interest other than _camaraderie_. In fact a little later I was
angered at occasional demonstrations in one who was a faithless swain;
for he would often manage to take his sweetheart home first and thus
walk home alone with me. I felt sorry for her because she had so little
spirit; chided her for letting him tyrannize over her; upbraided him
for being fickle; and tried to be a disinterested friend to both. Yet
as time passed there were a few occasions when, silencing my scruples,
I permitted advances on his part of which I was heartily ashamed. He
would take us both for a drive, and after leaving her at her home,
would attempt to put his arm around me. Although at first repulsing
him angrily, at length I suffered it, knowing all the time that it was
wrong. How tender and persuasive his tones as we drove along, yet he
would be talking about the most commonplace things, and I would sit
there straight and unyielding with burning cheeks. I knew it was wrong
for two reasons--because he was Bessie’s “beau,” and because I didn’t
really like him that way; yes, and also because it was wrong to let any
one put his arm around you. The second reason seemed the stronger, and
I was ashamed of myself for being susceptible to his wooing tones and
ingratiating ways while really despising such faithlessness. Had he
tried to kiss me, I think I should have annihilated him on the spot.
In fact, I think I hardly dreamed of such an advance to _me_ then
being possible. I doubt if any other boy of my acquaintance would have
believed that I would permit any one to do as this one did.
I was really more attracted to Walter, the other youth with whom we
studied. We were the best of friends. One night he came to our door and
asked me to come out on the veranda--an unusual request. “Come out and
see the stars,” was all he said. Wonderingly I went out: it was a cold
night, my teeth chattered. We walked to the west end of the veranda
and stood in silence for a little looking at the stars. I remember how
Orion shone; we spoke but little, but I recall how his voice trembled;
I did not understand it, but it moved me. It was such a little thing,
and perhaps I make more of it than there was, but there seemed
something in his impulsive request and the silent contemplation of the
stars that was electrical--youth and propinquity, I suppose. Nothing
came of it. I think at the time I was undoubtedly more attracted to
him than he to me, but I don’t believe he ever dreamed of it. In fact,
the boys and girls were wont to look upon me as a little aloof from
them. The sweetheart of this same youth said to me one Monday morning:
“Genie, when I see you in church Sunday nights, you seem so far away;
your face looks so serious, and as though I would never dare speak to
you; but when I see you in school and hear you laugh and talk you seem
like one of us.”
Most of the girls had had their beaux who had sent them valentines and
bestowed upon them juvenile gifts, but my experience in this field
had been very meagre. When a child, before I had learned to write, I
remember being pleased with a little boy who drew me home on his sled,
and once I printed him a note. I hardly think I ever intended giving it
to him, but I tucked it under the zinc of our sitting-room stove and
my sister found and read it. The mortification I endured hearing her
repeat it cured me. I so hated after that to hear “Freddie boy’s” name
mentioned that I was glad when he moved out of town. I recall no other
sentimental affairs till I was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, when one of
the academy boys and I had a clandestine correspondence. He liked a
lot of the girls, was very popular, and wrote to several of them; they
used to brag about it and show their notes, but I told no one that he
wrote to me. The notes were usually trivial affairs, questions as to
where the grammar lesson was, and the like, although there were a few I
blush to remember. I was quite infatuated for a time; he was the hero
of my daydreams, but far more interested in another girl than in me; he
doubtless had no inkling of what was passing in the mind of his prim
little school-mate. Some time after this, when we were discussing our
futures, he told me of his intention of being a minister. I remember
his earnest voice and shining eyes as he spoke of our anticipated
careers, and said that we ought to do a great deal of good in the
world. When, later than this, Walter, the youth of whom I have spoken,
announced to me that he was going to study law, I recall the occasion
vividly: It was an August night when a lot of us young people and our
mothers were in the creek, in swimming. Since I have known more of
the world, I have wondered that there was never anything unpleasant
to look back upon in those associations. But we had all been well
brought up and were comparatively innocent, although we did not know
it then. (I saw this the other day: “‘I learned of my own existence,’
said Innocence, ‘only when I ceased to exist.’”) We mingled together,
youths and maidens, on geological excursions, star-gazing, in the woods
botanizing, in the water learning to swim, and never thought of the
possibility of anything but the frank, chaste comradeship there was
among us. I recall what a display of meteors there was that night, and
how the sight thrilled us. We had gone to the willows before sundown
and had lingered in the water till the stars came out. During a pause
between one of the trials when Walter was teaching me to swim, we stood
transfixed by the sudden appearance of a great fiery ball which seemed
to burst just over our heads and fall into a near-by meadow. Walter’s
arms tightened as he held me; awestruck, we stood there an instant,
a thrilling one (perhaps it was not all due to the meteor). Whenever
after that I would think of that night, it always made me blush; why, I
did not know, unless because I had to admit to myself that I liked to
feel those strong, firm arms around me.
A broken arm sustained in my school days is closely linked with another
of my girlish romances: One May day, instead of going directly home
from school to help with house-cleaning, as I had promised, I went to
drive with one of the girls. She was bringing home a seamstress. As we
neared the railway track, an approaching train, and simultaneously a
newspaper fluttering at the horse’s feet, made him shy and jump. Essie
was cool enough, but the seamstress shrieked and grabbed the lines,
making the horse wheel, which swung the buggy round and down a bank,
throwing us out.
The woman who had caused the accident, though unharmed, howled with all
her might, adding to the confusion. Essie picked herself up and chased
her horse. I picked myself up and stood, a little dazed, with gravel
and cinders ground in my cheeks and hands, with a general bruised
sensation, and with my left arm hanging in a limp, queer way.
To a man who asked me if I was hurt, I answered, “No, only my arm is
broken.” The by-standers laughed incredulously, but I insisted. They
told me to move it; I tried, but could not tell whether it moved or
not, till I put my other hand on it to follow it. It felt dead. Putting
the pale seamstress and me in a wagon, they drove us home, she groaning
and shrieking most of the remaining mile and half-fainting, so that I
had to support her with my sound arm.
As I went up the steps, Mother and Sister came toward me, frightened
at my bruised face and disordered appearance, and that limp arm. “I’ve
come to settle the house,” I said, trying to make light of it, but as
they started to cry I begged, “Don’t cry, Mother, or I can’t stand it.”
And quickly she braced up and began preparations for the Doctor, only
the tremor in her voice showing her anxiety.
Father and the Doctor soon came; neighbours flocked in; someone asked,
“Are _both_ bones broken?” Even in my distress I was amused at what,
in my recently acquired knowledge of anatomy, I considered woful
ignorance--“both” bones, when there is only one in the arm proper!
I can see now the frightened faces of the children peering in at the
window as I lay on the couch while the arm was being “set.” I almost
wanted to laugh, they looked so distressed. They said I was very brave.
There were weighty reasons for my good behaviour, vanity being the
chief: Already I had decided to study medicine, and thought that any
weakness on my part now would show my unfitness for it; but mainly, I
wanted to appear well before the young doctor who was then the hero of
my dreams and of those of my friend, Annette. For months previous we
had romanced and whispered about him, recording in our diaries every
glance he chanced to bestow upon us. Though scarcely aware of our
existence, he dwelt in all our air-castles, and we shared him between
us in a way girls have before they learn what jealousy means. And now
something had happened that brought him right into my home! Here he
would speak to me, look at me, and take an interest in me--for we never
deceived ourselves that he had ever really shown any interest in us.
It was all this that made me oblivious to the pain, if, indeed, there
was much pain. I was quietly elated. While driving home I had exulted
in the thought that as our family physician lived so far away, Father
would be sure to call the young doctor.
While he was working over me I could hardly wait to see how Annette
would look when I should tell her all about it. What a silly happy
girl I was with my broken arm! Even having to stay out of school was
compensated for by his daily visits. I treasured his lightest word. He
whisked in, breezy and cheery. It was delightful to hear him speak my
name--his rich, full voice, and his slight stammer--I doted on them.
Days when the splints had to be changed and the bandage loosened were
red-letter days, as his calls were then lengthened.
One day just before he came I had read two statements in the Bible that
had amused me: “A horse is a vain thing for safety,” and, “The arms of
the wicked shall be broken.” He laughed heartily when I told him what
I had found, and leaning over my chair as he looked on the page, asked
with engaging stammer, “Is th-that really in the B-bible, Genie?” That
was told with unction to Annette when she came after school--ostensibly
to keep me informed about the lessons, but chiefly to get reports of
the daily visits. She envied me then, but her time of rejoicing came
later when he treated her for jaundice; only, she complained, jaundice
wasn’t as interesting as a broken arm--one “looked such a fright”; and,
if the truth must be told, by the time her jaundice developed we had
both become somewhat disenchanted.
Our unfeeling idol remained in ignorance of our adoration, and actually
wooed and married an attractive young woman of his own age! We tortured
ourselves with watching the progress of this courtship, and tried hard
to pose as blighted beings during the week of his wedding. At the fatal
hour that gave him to another, we agreed to withdraw from the gaze
of the cold world and battle with our sorrow alone. It fell to me to
pick Grandma’s raspberries at that hour; but the hands could perform
their task though the heart was wrung with grief. The seclusion of the
berry-patch was welcome; there would I wrestle with this cup. I thought
of Annette and hoped she was as secluded as I, and wondered if her
heart was as heavy. Picking the berries, I recited aloud “The Lonely
One” (the most melancholy poem I could think of) and tried to picture
the long years of desolation ahead of me. But my recollection is that,
try as I would, I could not induce the requisite degree of misery. And
not long after, Annette and I confessed to each other, rather guiltily,
that for some time our feelings had not been as heartfelt as we had led
each other to suppose.
Thus ended our romance about “Apollo,” as we named him in our diaries.
It must have been three years before I left school that I conceived
the idea of studying medicine; it was during the period when I was
so religiously inclined. I had been to a Sunday-school excursion on
Seneca Lake that day when the idea came to me. There I had heard much
talk of a girl in our class who, having received a severe fall some
months before, and whom we had considered hopelessly injured, was now
improving surprisingly under the care of a woman physician from a
distant town. Her parents were too poor to procure these services, but
an aunt had recently sent for the physician; and the girl’s recovery
then seemed assured. All this I heard without apparently hearing,
giving it scant heed in the hustle and gayety of our lake picnic. An
old negress on the boat had told our fortunes that day, predicting
beaux and happy or unhappy marriages for all the girls but me. When
someone asked, “Isn’t _she_ going to marry?” she replied:
“Go ’long thar, her father doan’t want her to marry--she hain’t got no
call to get married.”
I was rather pleased at this: if it showed anything, I thought, it
showed that I was to have something different from a merely domestic
career; but I had no idea what my course in life was to be, nor what
I wanted it to be; and I think I was not then particularly concerned
about my sick schoolmate.
It was that night after returning home, as Mother and I sat on the
“stoop” in the darkness, talking in a desultory way, that this news
about Dora’s improvement occurred to me. Our talk was mingled with my
own dreams and cogitations as to what my future was to be. I knew I
must do something, but what that something was I did not know. Music
had been prohibited, teaching was out of the question because of my
incompetency in mathematics--suddenly into my mind there came the
strange, hitherto undreamed-of idea, and I said, first to myself, then
to Mother, “I will be a doctor.”
It all came in a twinkling--how scarce women physicians were, how much
they must be needed, and that if there were more of them in the smaller
towns, poor modest girls like Dora, who had refused treatment from a
man, need not suffer so for lack of means to employ them.
I can hear now the dismay in Mother’s voice as she said, “Oh, Eugenia!”
Fired with the idea, I talked eagerly and rapidly; it seemed clear
that it was to be; there was no question about its fulfilment; but how
it was to be accomplished, so far as finances were concerned, I was
puzzled to know. For Father’s health was precarious then--two bank
failures and hard times made just the ordinary expenditures hard to
meet. I did not see how it could be done, but knew it would. Elated
over the project, the very suddenness with which it had come to me
convinced me of its ultimate accomplishment. I felt annoyed at Mother’s
objections. When she demurred, I insisted on her giving a reason. Her
chief one, that it was going out of my sphere, irritated me. In those
days (I hope I am less so now) I was very intolerant of another’s
point of view, and Mother’s illogical way of meeting questions tried
me exceedingly. Her insight, her intuition, her faith, her estimate of
character, were strong, but her logic was poor. Probably then, knowing
me as she did, she felt it would be a life for which temperamentally
I was not suited; perhaps she divined some of the disappointments and
failures I have since experienced; but she was unable to give a reason
and could only protest in a pitying way. I can hear her tones yet, her
words of regret and dismay, as I announced my intention with a finality
she seemed to realize.
That night I wrote in my diary, doubtless sentimentally, of this
new idea. I think I rather gloried in Mother’s objections, and in
the ridicule of my sister when she heard of it. (She probably felt
much as some other girls and boys did: some boys who remembered my
hyper-sensitiveness and timidity as a child thought I would never have
“sand” enough to study medicine.)
For a little I chose to consider myself a martyr. Years later, in
looking over the diaries of that period, much of what I had written
seemed so at variance with what I then felt, that it seemed like the
experience of another person--so false, so sentimental, such a pose! In
shame and disgust I destroyed the records.
From the time, though, that the idea came to me, it was persistently
held. In school I worked with added zeal, paying especial attention
to studies I thought would be of use to me, and feeling impatient at
those which were distasteful, and which I thought little likely to be
helpful. But how poorly qualified was I then to judge of this! I know
now that just because of my failure to buckle down to what was hard for
me (particularly mathematics and physics), I missed the mental training
I most needed in those years. The education of the attention, the
moving along calmly from proof to proof, the deductions, the synthesis,
the exactness, the close, true ways of thinking, the patience, the
calmness; in short, the mental discipline which mathematics would have
given me, I failed to acquire; and I can now see how handicapped I have
been because of this failure. With senses so acute, and the emotional
nature so intense, the proper balance would have been found in a more
rigid intellectual training. The deficiencies have had to be made up,
when made up at all, at too great a cost; and the efficiency in my
chosen field of work has fallen far short of what it might have been
had I been more tractable then, more heedful of the advice of my elders.
Confiding my hopes to a few intimates, from them I got the sympathy
I craved. Gradually my ambition became known in the school. It was
perhaps two years later before a word was said to me on the subject by
my father. I thought it strange that he who showed such an interest in
my studies should be so indifferent in this which meant so much to me.
But I learned in time that it was not indifference. It seems he told
Mother not to be anxious over it and not attempt to dissuade me.
“If it is a mere whim,” he had said, “it will soon pass, and no harm
will be done; but if she is in earnest, she will do it, and opposition
will only make her more intent on it.”
When he saw it was not a whim, he acted promptly enough; and when the
time came for me to go to college, he smoothed the way as only the most
unselfish of fathers could. And so did Mother and Sister; their ready
help was given, their own economies and self-sacrifices were cheerfully
contributed that I might accomplish my purpose.
A certain noon as I started for school as usual Father said:
“Eugenia, hurry up to the office when school is out; I want to take you
to see Dr. Barnard.”
To my questioning look he explained:
“If you are bound to be a doctor, you may as well begin to find out
something about it. I have talked with the Doctor; he says he will take
you as a student; you can read in his office Saturdays and get a start
in that way.”
I wonder if my father knew how happy he made me that day. As I went
back to school I trod on air. A radiance suffused my whole being.
There was very little studying that afternoon--whispered explanations
to a favoured few, wonderful tolerance on the principal’s part at my
inattention to studies and open disregard of rules. We whispered and
wrote notes and were in a delicious flutter of excitement. As Father,
the Doctor, and the Professor were great cronies, I presume my teacher
knew of the plan long before I did.
Dr. Barnard was a man of perhaps thirty-five, though to me he then
seemed much older. He was comparatively a newcomer in the town but,
being a Mason, found favour in Father’s sight. A good man with whom
to be associated, a student of human nature, kind, easy-going, with a
keen sense of humour, he was wide-awake as a physician and, what is
especially to the point, he did not take me too seriously, but wisely
concealed from me that he did not. I think he cured me of some whims
and susceptibilities; and I can see that he helped to develop my sense
of humour and to counteract some of my strenuous, sentimental views
of life. But it was done tactfully. He never shocked, though often
surprised me.
That memorable first day he talked to me about the study of medicine,
about college life, its requirements, the difficulties to be
encountered, and the courage necessary. All that I could hope to do
while in school, he said, was to occupy the time I might otherwise
spend in desultory reading, in studying advanced physiology and
anatomy, thus making my first year in college easier. I could prepare
my lessons and he would quiz me on Saturdays.
So, in addition to my school work, I studied Gray’s Anatomy. He let
me take home a box of bones, and I felt proud indeed to be learning
about each little groove and facet and tuberosity. On Saturdays I
recited and sometimes went with him into the country, often reading to
him from books on _materia medica_ or on pathology as we drove lazily
along. Occasionally he took me into the houses to see an interesting
case, but as a rule I held the lines during his visits (and was always
nervous till he was back in the buggy). Once I went with him when
he reduced a fractured arm. I got angry at the rough, coarse-voiced
woman who stood by ridiculing her husband for his groans and sighs;
she called him a calf, and said he ought to have a few babies, then he
_might_ make a fuss. The Doctor was much amused at my embarrassment.
My preceptor moved away before I was graduated from the Academy,
and I then carried on what studying I did by myself, and later with
another girl, who, though ridiculing me at first, finally decided to
go to Boston with me to study medicine. No urging of mine influenced
her; on the contrary, I was rather disappointed at her decision.
Secretly pleased, as I was, to be different from the others, Belle’s
determination to study medicine robbed me of this distinction. Then
we had never been especially congenial. Totally unlike in tastes and
temperament, we had always been on opposite sides of the fence--she
a Democrat, I a Republican; she a Baptist, I a Methodist--we had
quarrelled over politics and argued over religion, and there was
no love lost between us. But, as she told me later, she had had me
“dinged” into her ears by her mother and sister so long that she had
come to think she must do as I did. This is why she decided to study
medicine.
At our last rhetorical exercises before graduation, we had the usual
history and prophecy, and felt the sentiments and emotions usually felt
on leaving school. We resurrected an old song we had sung in the lower
grades--“Twenty Years Ago”--its sentiment appealing to us now that we
were already beginning to feel a yearning for the old place:
I’ve wandered to the village, Tom,
I’ve sat beneath the tree
Upon the school-house play-ground
Which sheltered you and me;
But none were left to greet me, Tom,
And few were left to know
Who played with us upon the green
Just twenty years ago.
Although the boys had jeered at its sentiment, and objected to its
solemnity, they joined in it at the close of the exercises as feelingly
as we could desire. There seemed a world of pathos in it as our young
voices sang it that June afternoon just before we were dismissed for
the last time from the old walls. As the sounds died away, “Prof.”
stepped to the bell-rope, traces of emotion on his face, and rang the
bell--the signal for the close of school. We packed our books, closed
our desks, and dispersed, never more to return to the place that had
grown so dear.
Commencement exercises! There in the old church packed to overflowing,
parents and friends gather to hear the boy or girl on whom their hopes
are set deliver the oration or read the essay that is a marvel of
eloquence and wisdom.
Brimming with youth and hope, each girl graduate flutters before
the audience and from out the glamour of this never-to-be-forgotten
time announces confidently her hopes, her solemn beliefs, her freely
bestowed advice. It is all beautiful. The youths and maidens seem
lifted just a bit above the earth; but underneath the rosy glow solemn
thoughts force their way; sobs and tears are near the smiles; the
earnest students, touched by the remembrance of the love and sacrifice
of their parents, are moved to high resolve--they will yet justify this
faith in them!
Meadow daisies are massed in profusion around altar and platform; a
paper canoe covered with daisies is suspended above--its paddle bearing
the word “Knowledge.” The class motto (translated)--“The love of
knowledge impels us”--is outlined on the wall.
Roses, roses, everywhere. How the breath of June roses always brings up
that scene when I stood on the platform of the Methodist church that
night in June and looked down upon a sea of faces! Behind me, on the
platform, sat the dear teachers, doubly dear now that we were to go
from under their tuition; below me, close at hand, were the classmates,
so soon to “trust their parting feet to separate ways.” What a flood of
thoughts rushed through me as, standing there, in a voice that I did
not know, so loud and clear it rang (as though apart from myself), I
delivered the class valedictory!
Looking down to our pew I saw Father and Mother beaming with pride
and joy; saw my sister and all the friends and neighbours of our
little village. How the expressions and the various faces stand out
even to-day! But am I dreaming? Is it really true? Yes, there sits my
own grandfather, dressed in unaccustomed black clothes, with a rapt
expression on his dear old face, the unheeded tears streaming down his
cheeks. The surprise and delight at seeing him there is one of the
keenest of my girlhood’s happy recollections.
“Now, Eugenia!” my beloved teacher had encouragingly whispered when I
had passed him on the way to the centre of the platform; and afterward,
“I didn’t know you could do it,” he said exultantly, grasping my hand.
Then I knew I had done well. In school, as a rule, I had trembled and
mumbled when reading my essays; and although we had been drilled for
this momentous occasion, I had sadly faltered at rehearsals, and I knew
that “Prof.” had, as I had, grave misgivings as to my ability to get
through with it at all creditably.
“You were inspired,” said an admiring classmate extravagantly; “we
could hardly believe our eyes and ears!”
My essay, called “Sailing,” portrayed allegorically the voyage of
school life. By cables our little boats were fastened to a large ship
on which was the Captain who guided our course near home and foreign
shores, where we learned of the earth and the air, the rocks and the
reefs, and the mysteries of the deep; we studied the stars overhead,
the banks along the shores, the _fauna_ and _flora_, as well as the
peoples of the various climes--their language and literature. And this
is how my wonderful essay ended, as dropping the allegory, I addressed
the class:
Classmates, we have now come to that part of our voyage where we
must separate. We have long been fellow-voyagers, sailing side by
side, upon the Sea of Knowledge; we have had one ship, one voyage,
and one Captain, but henceforth our course must change; and as
we end the voyage of school life, and begin the greater one on
Life’s vast sea, may He who walked upon the waters be your Pilot,
guarding against shipwreck, and guiding your course until your
boats shall near the shining shore, and anchor in the peaceful
haven of Eternal Rest.
For two or more years I had had grave doubts about the truth of certain
orthodox teachings previously accepted unquestioningly. Our studies in
geology and astronomy had set me thinking for myself. I was groping
about for a reconciliation of opposing teachings. Our principal,
too, had often raised questions in class that he made no pretense of
answering, doubtless merely to awaken thought. Some essays of Huxley’s
and Spencer’s had contributed to my unsettled state of mind. In a
veritable chaos, impatient with certain teachings I now knew could not
be true, but too unschooled and dependent to reach a satisfactory
solution, I was a most unhappy being. With an ingrained tenderness for
the old paths, yet was I morally sure that there were broader ones,
with wider, truer vistas. Pulled this way and that, remorse because
of my doubts and uncertainties alternated with defiance; for I felt
that, since my reason was meant for use, there was a higher Right that
sanctioned my attempts to get at the truth.
I revert to all this now because it comes to me how I struggled with
myself, when writing those last words of my essay, as to whether
I would say what I did, knowing in my heart that, in the ordinary
acceptation of the words, it was almost hypocrisy for me so to use
them--“May He who walked upon the waters be your Pilot”--and yet
feeling that they were needed to carry out my figure, and to make a
suitable ending to conform to orthodox beliefs. Besides, what had
I to offer instead? I did not believe that He actually walked upon
the waters, but I did believe that He would make a good Pilot, so,
weighing both sides, stood by what I had written. A lot of talk about
one clause in a schoolgirl’s graduating essay, but it indicates the
spiritual struggle which to recall even now makes me sorry for that
girl I used to know. I think I must have been more conscientious about
these things than most of the girls, for I never heard them hint at
such problems, and never discussed these things with them, though I
did with my friend, Walter. Had I attempted to explain my difficulties
to my elders, I should only have blundered and bungled. Yet, in spite
of these scruples, I sacrificed my dawning convictions that I might
attain what I considered an apt and artistic ending to my allegory!
I remember, though, that after deciding to make this concession to
established opinions, I nudged myself with a congratulatory nudge at
the innocent-looking but non-committal “peaceful haven of Eternal
Rest.” I had not read “The Light of Asia” then, and knew nothing of
what Nirvana meant--the ending merely pleased me by its cadence, and
its figurative fitness; it did no violence to my budding doubts, yet
would, I was sure, be accepted as a pious and fitting ending to my
clever allegory!
Self-centred and self-conscious though I was, I was aware that no one
would give the attention to my little composition that I gave--the
general effect only would be noted; but I wanted to justify myself to
myself; I wanted also to be approved by the public--two opposing trends
of character that have robbed me of peace of mind at many a crucial
moment. In this early crisis, after weighing it all, I decided upon the
expedient course, taking care, however, to be as sincere as I could be
in conforming to the exigencies of the case. Looking back over my life,
I wonder if this has not been the course I have most generally pursued.
It seems to have been typical of much of my conduct.
The above-named was not my original graduating essay but was one I
had written for our Class Day exercises under the emotional stir-up
felt at leaving school. My real essay, written for Commencement, I
considered a much finer production (I blush to think of it now); but
my instructors had persuaded me to read my allegory at Commencement. I
felt aggrieved that the other should be buried in oblivion. It was an
absurd affair--“What is Woman?”--which started out attempting to answer
in a facetious way some of the arguments in Walter’s essay--“Man’s
Place in Nature”--after which I launched forth in a revolt against the
prevailing ideas about woman’s inferior place in nature and in society.
It was a kind of miniature woman’s rights plea, weak and unoriginal,
and with my special thunder directed toward those who would prevent
woman from seeking to “heal the sick world that leans on her.” This
was “Lucile’s” influence, combined with reading “Eminent Women of the
Age,” plus a little Huxley and Spencer. The hodge-podge wound up with
a poetical passage probably inspired by parts of “Paradise Lost,” and
by a poem of Emma C. Embury’s--“The Mother.” Concerning the ending, I
was not aware of its being anything but smooth in expression till, on
reading it aloud to one of the girls, she exclaimed, “Why, Eugenie,
that isn’t prose--that is poetry!” a verdict which naturally made me
feel more keenly than ever the disappointment at not being able to read
my masterpiece at Commencement.
After graduation I pieced out a summer term in a district school, the
regular teacher falling ill. As it was in one of the same schools where
my mother had taught as a girl, I tried to imagine what her life and
thoughts and hopes had been in those days when she did not know Father,
and when I was--nothing.
Besides giving me the opportunity to earn money, teaching was a
profitable experience: I found it strange to be the mistress of
anything. At first when standing up before the little people, it seemed
queer to have them obey; it took me some time to get over the surprise
of it; had they rebelled I should not have thought it strange. But one
quickly learns to rule when he knows it is expected. I was learning for
the first time what prestige goes with the mere office. It was soon a
delight to direct and sway this little world. I then appreciated what a
trial my teachers had had with me. Encountering occasional opposition
in my pupils, and feeling the consequent disappointment, I had my
first realization of the trouble I had given my own teachers, and felt
a wave of tenderness, especially for “Prof.,” as I marvelled at his
forbearance.
Some of my little charges were amusing and interesting; one or two
repelled me; to others I was strongly drawn. One little boy of five or
six was quaint and original: when I asked him who God was he sighed and
said, “That’s more than _I_ know.” He defined the stomach as “a kind
of bread-basket, ain’t it?” A bare-footed, brown-eyed boy of perhaps
twelve found a warm place in my heart. It was hard work not to pet
him. I grew almost sentimental over him, and made occasions for him
to raise his eyes, just to look into their brown depths. I remember
thinking, “Those eyes will make some girl’s heart ache some day.” They
almost made mine ache then. He seemed indifferent to my poorly veiled
preference for him, and evidently had no ambition to become “‘teacher’s
pet.’” One boy much older than the others grew insubordinate and I told
him he must apologize for his impudence or leave the school. As he was
to attend the Academy in a few weeks, he felt independent and refused.
Having to stand my ground for the sake of discipline, I let him pack
up his books and leave, but it was hard work to keep from calling him
back. I knew he was sorry, but couldn’t say so.
The winter school which I taught was in another district--Johnny Cake
Hollow--in a little red schoolhouse in the same neighbourhood where the
youth lived to whom I had written notes in school. Although I had then
recovered from my early fancy, I was still sentimental enough to wish I
knew which of the battered old desks had been his.
Boarding about half a mile from the schoolhouse in a family with a lot
of children, some of the elder ones of whom had attended the Academy
with me, I carried my dinner in a two-quart pail, and trudged through
the snow in all kinds of weather, all of which helped to make me more
hardy than I had been before. The bigger boys went ahead to break the
paths and open the stove, and “the teacher” followed surrounded by a
little group of red-hooded girls and sturdy urchins, their caps with
ear-laps pulled down low over their faces, their dinner pails gleaming
in the sunshine.
I would have been happy that winter with its rugged pleasures and the
consciousness that I was earning money but for my perpetual anxiety
over the arithmetic lessons. It was easy enough with the B-class, but
with the A-class I was in continual hot water. Studying harder out of
school than any of my pupils did in school, I was always apprehensive
lest something come up that I could not explain. I knew that some
of the older boys and girls understood their lessons better than I
did--or would, if we advanced much farther in the book. Always promptly
dismissing the arithmetic class, I let the others run overtime. I am
afraid I kept the pupils back lest they get to that _terra incognita_
(the back part of the book) where I was so lamentably weak. In other
respects I think I was a good teacher; in that I know there could
scarcely have been a poorer.
The demonstrative _pater familias_ where I boarded gave me some trying
times: he was always putting his arms around me in a jolly, teasing
way that was hard to resist; it offended my dignity, yet I could not
manifest my full displeasure for fear of hurting the feelings of his
daughters, my friends; I thought it would be painful to them to see
their father rebuffed, so, evading him when I could, when I couldn’t,
I bore it with poor grace. Besides, I was displeased to have these
demonstrations before the children, my pupils--the demure young teacher
was very jealous of her dignity.
One of the sons, about my own age, was a fine-grained youth; we and his
sisters had good times together, but something happened one evening
which made me furious: I was lying down, half asleep, dimly conscious
of the light and voices in the adjoining room, when I was startled by
a light kiss on my cheek. Thinking it was one of the girls, or one of
the little boys who was very affectionate, I lazily opened my eyes and
saw the guilty young man standing there, shaking with laughter. His
merriment was short-lived. Whatever I said made him feel sheepish and
contrite, for I felt that he had done me an irreparable wrong. There
was no pose in this: it seemed a real violation. No one, since when in
childhood I had stopped playing kissing-games--no boy or man, except
my relatives--had kissed me, and now this was done and couldn’t be
undone! I was a long time outgrowing my futile regret. Thereafter the
reprimanded youth was properly respectful to the Offended Being who
grudgingly pardoned him.
At the time of Commencement I had formed a friendship with a girl from
Ithaca who, with her brother, visited in our village, and later engaged
in an active correspondence with both of them. They were several years
my senior; they had the charm of the unknown; they had read much and
wrote interesting letters; they were both religious, and in his letters
the young man laboured to bring me back into the old paths, or, rather,
into the Episcopalian fold. He was the nearest to a “beau” I ever had,
and a year later came to town, shortly before I started for college,
just to visit me. Full of my approaching departure and the new life
before me, his coming impressed me less than it might otherwise have
done. I have since wondered if he did not intend something more than
merely looking very soulful things had he met with any response from
me. I recall the thrill in his voice which stirred me a little when we
took a certain afternoon walk. But I found him much less interesting
than I had found his letters; and whenever I looked at the lower part
of his face, thought what a pity it was that such fine eyes should be
offset by such a mouth and chin. I knew I could never love a man with
a mouth and chin like his. He was then studying for the ministry, and,
I think, was tuberculous. His lack of physical strength and vigour
probably repelled me without my realizing what did it. At any rate, he
said no word to indicate anything but warm friendship. After his visit
he sent me Keats’s poems. Our correspondence continued throughout a
part of the college course. I have forgotten how it was dropped. During
one of my vacations I remember hearing him conduct religious services
in the little chapel in our village, but could not endure his intoning
and his priestly ways; his voice was weak, and the clerical garb only
accentuated his masculine deficiencies. I thanked my stars that I had
not been infatuated at the earlier period when he probably was a shy
adorer. Had he been healthy and good-looking, I might have succumbed,
for he pleased my mind at the time.
My sister had left school without graduating, which had greatly
disappointed me. But, more practical than I, and less studious, and
confronted by our growing needs and straitened means, seeing a way
in which she could help, she had taken matters in her own hands, and
a year or more before I left school had begun to learn dress-making.
I used to marvel to see her take the big shears and cut into new
material--such skill and daring, and she such a slip of a girl! What
pretty gowns she made for herself and me, talking me out of my “old
maidish notions,” and making me wear things that were “stylish” in
spite of myself, for I often objected strenuously to prevailing modes.
I can see now that it was individuality in dress that I was striving
for; but, though failing to achieve it to any extent, I habitually
dissented from conformity. How lovingly she worked on my graduation
gown, and how pretty she looked in the old-rose silk which she earned
and made for herself and first wore on that occasion!--the same
old-rose that played so prominent a part in our wardrobe for several
subsequent years. For she let me take it during my college course (when
she needed it herself); then when she married she remodelled it for
her trousseau. Again, when I was practising, and money was scarce, she
made it over for me--the gown going back and forth between us like a
shuttlecock; and every change in its form, and every scrap of the silk
I see to-day, tells its tale of love and devotion and self-sacrifice,
inseparably linked with our girlish hopes and trials and experiences.
I remember with delight the gowns I had to start with to college (no
bride ever enjoyed her trousseau more), and I recall with tenderness
the hours Sister spent on them, planning how she could accomplish
what she wished with as little outlay as possible. The new world I
was entering, the novel experiences, all come back to me now when I
see bits of the old garments--my brown travelling suit that I wore to
lectures; my plaid one that was made over, even prettier than when
first made; my “best dress”; my red “wrapper”; my gymnasium suit--how
much they meant to me, and how impossible they would have been but for
Sister’s love and efficiency!
You may rip and remodel old gowns as you will,
But the scent of old memories clings round them still.